What You Think I Am

He didn’t answer the way I expected.

That was the worst part.

When I asked him if he wanted me, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean back. Didn’t deny it.

He just said, “That’s not the question you should be asking.”

And it followed me.

Through the doorway. Down the hall. Back to my car. All the way home.

I lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, heart thudding like I’d run a mile, legs tangled in too-warm sheets, the silence of my apartment pressing in around me like a weighted blanket I never asked for.

What question should I be asking?

Do I want to be wanted?

Do I want to be loved?

Do I even know the difference?

I didn’t sleep much, again.

But I showed up to therapy the next day anyway.

Hair in a bun. Hoodie. No mascara. No defense.

I sat cross-legged on the couch and didn’t say anything at first.

He didn’t push. Just waited. Like he knew I’d talk when I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

It took four minutes and thirteen seconds. Probably. I guess...

“Can I ask you something?” I finally muttered.

He nodded.

“If I wasn’t your patient... would you want me?”

His pen stilled. He didn’t look up.

“That’s one hell of a question.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll answer it.”

I sat straighter.

His eyes met mine.

“If I wasn’t your therapist,” he said, low and even, “yes. I would want you.”

My breath caught. Stuck somewhere between satisfaction and fear.

“But,” he added, “you don’t want to be wanted for who you are. You want to be wanted for what you offer.”

My throat tightened. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

I hated him in that moment.

Because he was right.

Because I didn’t even know what I had to offer besides my body.

And I hated myself for that too.

“You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?” I said, arms folded.

“No,” he said. “I think you’re in pain.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s not.”

I looked away. “You think I’m a sex-crazed mess with no self-respect.”

“I think you’ve been touched by people who didn’t earn it and ignored by people who should’ve cared.”

That shut me up.

He leaned forward. “Amelia, I don’t think you’re broken because you like sex. I think you’re hurting because you don’t know how to be seen without offering yourself first.”

I felt it then.

That crack.

The one running right down my spine. Where every word he spoke slipped in like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“I don’t know who I am outside of this,” I whispered.

“You’re more than what’s been done to you.”

“But what if I’m not?” I asked. “What if all I’ll ever be is what people take from me?”

He leaned back slowly, eyes still straight to mine.

“Then we find what no one’s ever touched.”

I didn’t cry this time.

But I wanted to.

Instead, I smiled—tight, bitter. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not. But neither is staying the same.”

I nodded, slowly, like I believed him. I didn’t. Not yet.

That night, I didn’t hook up with anyone.

Didn’t scroll Tinder or send a frisky text.

Didn’t even touch myself.

I just sat there, on my cold apartment floor, back to the wall, knees tucked into my chest, wondering how I got here.

How a girl who used to be top of her class, who dreamed about law school and saving the world, ended up giving blowjobs in admin offices and calling it affection.

I couldn’t remember the exact day it all changed.

But I knew the moment I stopped caring was the moment someone I trusted taught me that my body was currency.

Next session, I came in different.

Not calmer.

But flirty.

Like I’d peeled a layer back and didn’t know if I wanted to put it on again.

Lane looked up as I sat down.

“You look… tired,” he said.

“Thanks. You look emotionally unavailable.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

I sighed and dropped my bag. “I want to tell you something.”

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I slept with my mom’s boyfriend when I was sixteen.”

There it was.

The room went quiet.

Not shocked quiet.

Still quiet.

He didn’t write. Didn’t move.

He just looked at me.

I swallowed.

“He was forty-three. Said I was ‘mature for my age.’ Told me he loved me. That I was special.”

“Did your mom know?”

“She found out eventually,” I said. “Threw me out.”

His jaw tightened.

I kept talking. “I lived with a friend for a few months. Then with her brother. Slept in his bed for a while. Then another guy. Then another.”

He nodded once. “That’s when it started.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s when I realized sex could get me anything. A bed. A ride. A hug. Something that felt like love.”

“And you’ve been chasing that same hit ever since.”

I nodded.

“And no one’s ever told you it wasn’t your fault?”

I blinked at him.

“No.”

He stood, walked to the shelf behind his desk, pulled down a small square box of tissues, and placed it beside me.

Not because he expected me to cry.

But because he knew I wouldn’t.

“You’re not disgusting,” he said. “You’re grieving.”

I stared at the box like it was a bomb.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t need to stop needing touch,” he said. “You just need to stop confusing it for worth.”

When I left, the wind outside felt sharper.

But I liked it.

Because for once, I wasn’t numb.

I wasn’t aroused.

I wasn’t anything performative.

I was just...

real.

Whatever that meant.

Back at home, I sat in front of the mirror. Staring at my reflection like I was seeing it for the first time.

I ran my fingers down my arms. Across my chest. My stomach.

Not sexually.

Just… curiously.

Is this mine?

Has it ever been?

The phone buzzed beside me.

A text.

From an unknown number.

“You think therapy will save you, slut?”

My stomach dropped.

Another message followed.

“We all know what you are. Don’t forget it.”

I stared.

Fingers numb.

Lungs frozen.

Who the hell—?

I looked into the mirror again, but this time, all I saw was shame.

And I realized something awful.

No matter how much I wanted to be free…

Some people would only ever see me as what I used to be.